


Drinking With 'Friends'

by MeltyRum



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka, Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Under Night In-Birth (Video Game), Zatanna (Comics)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27392479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltyRum/pseuds/MeltyRum
Summary: A big mess of characters brought together by alcohol.
Relationships: Nino & Lotta Otus
Collections: Generic_Roleplay_Cyberpunk





	Drinking With 'Friends'

While the air conditioning was—unfortunately—not keeping things as cool as it perhaps _could_ be, the sheer difference in humidity between the San Angeles streets and the interior of the bar still made for a net gain in the relief department, the parlor feeling dry and comfortable in spite of the rain tracked in by its dozens of visitors. As the odor of rain and asphalt and rain-on-asphalt gave way to the faintly doughy smell of stale Beer and the lingering scent of sawdust (some kind of odd deodorizer, she suspected, since she’d never seen a speck of the stuff in here), Kara doffed the hood of her jacket as the door closed behind her.

There was a brief surge in volume as greetings arose from several familiar cliques of customers pocketed about the room, to which she responded with an embarrassed smile and a wave as she made her way to the bar where Zatanna awaited. Kara pulled a damp handkerchief from her pocket as she took up a post one of the stools, doing what little she could to pad some of the raindrops from her clothing.

“Hi, Kara! Looking for the usual?” asked the bartender, smiling perhaps more than just courteously.

Kara blinked dumbly at her for a moment, realizing something was… _different._ “Sure—the usual!” she managed. “Isn’t that something you usually save for the… weekend?”

Zatanna laughed, the gesture all the more exaggerated for the dark makeup on her lips. “It _is_ the weekend. You just missed a show, in fact.” The crisp polyester gloves still stretched pleasingly against the bartender’s fingers as she proceeded to fetch the appropriate ingredients, which culminated in her retrieving a tall bottle of pure karmotrine from an upturned and shiny and silken black hat, which had filled past its brim with ice.

With various bottles heading hither and thither, the mixing was even more of a presentation than normal; Kara half expected Zatanna’s lithe, little hands to summon a wand from the ether, with which she might do heaven-knows-what to the drink she was making. And while it was by no means unpleasant, something about her trim dress jacket, starched magician’s vest, and bow tie all seemed to… _contrast_ against the setting of a blue collar bar, to put things mildly.

“It is kind of weird that this aesthetic managed to survive so long,” murmured Kara dreamily.

“Pardon?” asked Zatanna with a dubious smile, putting the finishing touches on the drink and sliding it across the bar.

“Oh—did I say that out loud?” She took her glass with a sheepish laugh. “Just—the magician costume. I mean, everyone likes fishnets, but… polyester top hats and ruffled blouses and things like that? People don’t really wear those anymore, right? Some kind of pleather with built-in halo lights seems like it would be closer to modern tastes. This traditional stuff would have been, I don’t know… centuries ago?” she said ponderously, thinking this was safe enough to share without give away her status as what was essentially a time traveler.

“Well… before my time, that’s for sure,” conceded Zatanna uncertainly, regarding her top hat with some suspicion, as though she had never really considered where such a strange device might have come from. Eventually, though, her dark lips curved into a nice little smirk. “Guess it just adds to the mystique of it all—ancient artifacts and magic should go hand in hand, shouldn’t they?”

“All part of the ritual,” agreed Kara, grinning. “Sorry I missed your show.”

Zatanna shook her head. “Come on. Nothing to worry about—although it was a pretty good one, if I do say so myself. But how _did_ you manage to forget it was Saturday? You didn’t work today, did you?”

“No. I got suspended,” she admitted without thinking, her voice stopping in her throat for a moment as she mentally berated herself.

The look of nonplussed concern on Zatanna’s face reminded her, though, that she now had to articulate _why._

_“_ It’s a light suspension!” she added, still in the middle of rallying her faculties. “I ended up in a collision, so the company grounded me for a few days while they handle the investigation.”

“No kidding?” asked the magician, a familiar air of sympathy reaching her features—one that Kara had seen before, having witnessed colleagues confess similar stories to the bartender. “Is this kind of investigation normal, though? Sounds pretty serious.”

The courier smiled weakly in response. “It is not normal—investigations are only for potentially serious offenses, as you would expect. Hoppers can scrape each other all week and not get in real trouble. Unfortunately, I didn’t scrape with a hopper.”

Bemused and interested, Zatanna waited for her customer to continue.

“Petasos and its lawyers are doing everything they can to keep things quiet, so I don’t know how much detail I can get into… but I hit someone,” came the confession, Kara’s heart and gut sinking painfully even as she latched onto the hope that Hawks would keep her from harm.

“A  _person_ ? But this was the hopper—not a car?”

“Right. The hopper. Someone was in the sky.”

“What? Falling, or something?”

Kara nodded.

“Shit.”

She nodded once more.

Looking faintly horrified, Zatanna’s eyes briefly darted this way and that as she searched for the correct conversational follow-up to this kind of situation. “Are they…” she trailed off, swallowing this first question in favor of another: “Are you alright?”

She laughed, albeit a touch dryly. “I will be okay, I think. My salary is still being taken care of, although I might have to pay them back if this results in me being let go—but I supposedly have a good reason to believe everything will be all right. And I don’t blame you for being curious, so I don’t mind telling you: the ‘victim’ is all right, too. So—other than it not being my fault—I think he understands that and is doing his best to work with me. He’s in a… good position to do so, if that makes sense.”

“Well, seeing how he _fell_ , I’m guessing it’s down to pure, unfortunate circumstance that it happened to be you.” Zatanna still shook her head, though, indicating that it _didn’t_ exactly make sense. “I hope you’ll forgive me for stating the obvious, but it sounds like he tried to kill himself; he’s still willing to work with you after that?”

“Yes. It’s really hard to describe, but things are more complicated than that—no suicide attempt. I guess the closest thing you could call it is an ‘accident’?” Kara mused, finally treating herself to some of her drink. The man certainly hadn’t passed out mid-air _on purpose_ , now had he? “Anyway, I suppose this is all why I’m here—needed a drink.” She smiled, trying to restore a bit of cheer to the conversation.

Zatanna chuckled, reciprocating the attempt. “Well, that’s what I’m here for: conjuring drinks and looking nice.”

“All the nicer for your outfit, too. Where do you get boots that high?” She couldn’t help wondering if Barbara would like that sort of thing.

“One of my dad’s old friends—I’ll send you an address. Very professional.”

Kara smiled and gave a crisp nod of gratitude, at the same time chancing a sideways glance at the owner. “Well, it’s nice. But if you’re working in this, shouldn’t your boss be in something similar?”

“Slade?” She stifled her laughter behind a smirk, following Kara’s gaze over to him. “He’s probably never touched a bow tie in his life, for better or worse—honestly, the embarrassment might just kill him. Although—in his defense—such attire  _does_ clash with the décor a bit. It’s not like I whip out the tailcoat and top hat unless there’s a show to be done.”

“I guess that is one of the reasons we all like Deathstroke,” agreed Kara, enjoying another sip from her glass. “It’s hard to feel under _-_ dressed here. Oh, yeah—I meant to bring it up earlier, but got distracted by work: that guy you were talking about before… should I ask if there’s been any progress?” she asked, rather eager to hear any gossip that didn’t center around her.

Zatanna’s eyes rose to the ceiling in what  _appeared_ to be a half-complete eye-roll, her smile turning an odd combination of embarrassed, wry, and wistful. “Things haven’t headed anywhere particularly interesting for a while, so… no, you probably  _shouldn’t_ ask. If I were to take a guess, I think his interests are elsewhere—which, you know, is fine. No harm staying friends, after all; I just have to vary my interests, too.”

“Right…” Kara offered only a sympathetic nod, failing to find any applicable advice to the magician-bartender’s situation.

“Anyway,” Zatanna resumed, apparently happy to put the subject behind them. “Probably shouldn’t be getting customers wrapped up in  _my_ goings-on, so… maybe it would make sense to update you elsewhere. Ever think about hitting a different bar, sometime—with me?”

Kara’s eyebrows rose in pleasant surprise, the drink in her hand simultaneously taking on more flavor at the offer. “Oh—sure! I would like that,” she replied with a smile. “Although, I mean, I do have a—”

“A girlfriend. Right. Just a drink between friends, I promise,” she laughed, amused at having to clarify. “Or—hell—if she has time, you could bring her along and introduce us, if you can’t bring her here for whatever reason.”

Kara chuckled. “Alright, deal. Even if I have to drag her away from work myself.”

These pedestrian streets, while normally thick with stalls, traders, loitering hackers, and purposeful businessmen, now instead seemed packed only with whatever waterproof instruments people had at hand: umbrellas, hoods, and the shiny plastic of cheap ponchos lined the width of the passage, the rustling of these latter articles only occasionally heard whenever one was lucky enough to pass briefly beneath an airborne vehicle or an overhanging piece of the architecture around and above, with all else drowned out by the patter of raindrops.

It was hard for Orie not to watch too closely the oncoming foot traffic, searching every sad, damp countenance for one that might be familiar to her—but not because she was on the lookout for friendly faces. Quite the opposite, of course. And while she knew that she was staring, she tried to console herself with the knowledge that this was her  _job_ , her  _livelihood_ , even if tonight’s jaunt into the crowded market streets of the city was not necessarily motivated by her vocation’s dubious impetus for maintaining law and order.

But “the police is the public; the public is the police”, or so they said. If everyone watched each other as closely as she watched them, perhaps society would be better off for it.

She huddled briefly into a dripping alcove long enough to wipe some moisture from her arm-mounted PAD, performing her due diligence by checking once again her list of names, faces, offenses, and—of course—neither seeing nor expecting to see them here  _now_ , but since coincidence seemed to follow her throughout the city, one never knew; whether this was her own luck or the divine interference of her primary clients… who could say?

This was simply habit: whenever she had a moment to refocus her search, she would do so. For an exorbitant price, perhaps she could one day stalk the streets with a handy device that would automatically read and cross-reference the faces of all passers-by without any intervention—the kind of tech that was more often spotted in the hands of frightening paramilitary types than with  _her_ kind, but… if a hunter netted a lucky catch or a particularly dangerous score, it wasn’t unheard of. Still, it wasn’t exactly  _good_ for a bounty hunter to become known as dangerous (or else they might not be dangerous for long), and a lengthy list of business expenses could often indicate just that.

With a crisp swipe here and the press of a contact there, she dismissed the PAD’s services and looked back up to meet the skyline far above her, silhouetted darkly against the gray mass of cloud and smog above, which was freckled with white in those places where the sun’s rays had nearly managed to penetrate.

She didn’t bother wiping the raindrops from her face before slipping back into the humid throng, having delayed her meeting long enough. She was uncertain whether or not she should be grateful that the remainder of her trip passed by perfectly uneventfully, but shook off the rain as she placed her hand on a dark door, entering the marginally brighter confines of the bar. She made sure to maintain her calm and neutrality of presence as she entered, even in spite of the sharp odor of alcohol and tobacco substitute that immediately assaulted her nostrils.

Orie had not really decided what “her place” was, but knew that Deathstroke was not it.

Still, she was not without composure or decorum, so she gave the suddenly attentive-looking woman behind the counter (who seemed to have just shared some sort of joke with the blonde customer across from her) a half-hearted smile as she approached—until out of the corner of her eye she spotted the distinctive features of those she meant to meet, toward whom she promptly corrected her trajectory, at the same time gracing the bartender with a painful and shallow little bow.

“Nice of you to come, Orie,” said Nino, smiling up at her as she joined them at the table.

“I appreciate your patience,” she replied, only narrowly resisting the urge to apologize since he  _sounded_ sincere enough.

“We’ve kept busy enough—right?” he asked, turning to his white-haired friend.

The delicate cat-ears atop Hayami’s head stood alert, but she otherwise gave him only a blank look. “I’ve certainly been watching you get drunk, sure.”

Nino smiled thinly, pouring himself a new glass of wine before setting the bottle (barely-touched, it seemed; maybe this was the second one?) back into the center of the table, where it shared space with a sculpture that somewhat abstractly resembled a flower in a little tin pot. Orie regarded it with a puzzled expression, since none of the other tables sported anything like this.

“That’s not true,” he eventually countered, gently. “There was the magic show. That was pretty good.”

As if summoned by his voice, the magician in question appeared quite suddenly at the bounty hunter’s side.

“Hi, welcome! Can I get you anything?” asked Zatanna, first making eye contact with Orie herself before looking up to extend her offer to the rest of the table. Everything about her seemed perfectly professional with the exception of her outlandish outfit, but… a magic show? Perhaps that did explain some things.

“Ah—no, thank you; I have enough here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Whatever she’s having, then, if that’s alright.”

“You got it,” answered the magician, slipping away with a wry smile that Orie did her best not to suspect. She glanced once more at the innocuous and fizzy drink before Hayami, nearly certain that it couldn’t contain any alcohol. Whatever the case, Hayami’s own countenance certainly betrayed no hint of mirth, amusement, or any other noteworthy emotion. She certainly wouldn’t have put it past Hayami to be drinking when she shouldn’t be, but… perhaps she was trying to read too much into otherwise innocent behavior—a bad habit learned from studying bounty cards every day, maybe.

A brief silence descended over the table, the bartender’s brief appearance and subsequent departure leaving them with a void of presence that no one seemed to know for certain how to fill; what had they even been discussing before this? Or maybe there was no void at all: between Nino’s relaxed smile and the cat-girl’s air of cool comfort, perhaps they were all rather plenty amenable to sitting in relative silence.

Would that there wasn’t work to be done, Orie thought. Best to get down to business.

“The Order said you could tell me about Kapusta,” she remarked matter-of-factly, looking back and forth between her two hosts.

“A little bit,” Nino admitted. “He’s been seen running a bit more business out of a compound on the North end of Taris boulevard—apparently rather aggressively. I suppose that wouldn’t be anything special if not for the size of the operation; seems he’s been sticking his neck out a little too far, is all.”

“What he means is that it’s unusual for one of Black Mask’s capos to get busy and unruly enough for civil protection to list a bounty for him,” added Hayami, sipping testily at her drink and wearing a face that seemed to disapprove of generally everything. “So it’s weird he’s in trouble. Also weird that the Order cares; probably just wants the credit again.”

Nino diplomatically refrained from addressing the tail end of her comment, but Orie found herself unable to resist the bait: “The Order picks targets judiciously; they know their focus isn’t dispensing justice, but take the contracts when they find it necessary.” She paused briefly, trying to decide if she herself was satisfied with that statement. “At any rate, you’re  _here_ , so you must agree that this is a bounty that needs to be claimed.”

She shrugged in response, which was no doubt as good a concession as Orie would receive.

The bounty hunter looked back to Nino for help.

“Well,” he started, agreeing to offer aid, “it’s like you say: regardless of who actually brings in this Kapusta, pulling him off of the streets is good for everyone. But I think it’s in the Order’s interest to demonstrate that its loyalty and services are to the general public, and that they do not believe organized crime will be able to support whole communities in the long run… at least, not quite so well as they can. Saying they want credit isn’t a stretch, but perhaps that doesn’t matter so much as the peace it might bring.”

Orie was pleased for Nino’s mediation, but she also couldn’t help seeing Hayami’s point now that he’d laid it out: at a certain level, the community services provided by churches and gangs weren’t so different; perhaps competing with mobsters was something of a bad look for the Order.

“It’s dangerous, too,” Hayami pointed out, after a short and smoldering silence. “There’s a reason we all know the name ‘Black Mask’.”

“Sounds like you’re trying to talk us out of it,” observed Nino.

“I think I see what she’s suggesting,” Orie interjected. “Removing Kapusta might not be worth drawing Black Mask’s attention to the Order—or to myself.”

“Is there a way to deliver him quietly?”

“Not if there’s going to be any claim to the reward; the guild needs to record whoever makes the claim, for legal and licensing reasons.” She stopped to look briefly up at the ceiling, remembering aloud one of her supervisor’s words: “No credits without credit.”

“To separate it from vigilantism, I suppose,” Nino mused.

Hayami clicked her tongue, apparently unimpressed. She opened her mouth to protest just when Zatanna appeared once again, setting a fizzy little drink in front of Orie.

“There you go—one Fluffy Dream, no Karmotrine. Anything else I can get you while I’m here?”

“No—thank you,” replied Orie with a smile, admittedly rather relieved at the timing of the bartender’s intervention.

“Not drinking?” asked Nino unexpectedly. Wasn’t this an odd time to bring up her drink choice? “Sure you don’t want to join us?” he asked, with an uncharacteristically smarmy smile.

“Hayami’s not drinking, either. And… I’m working,” she answered, more curtly than intended.

“Oh?” came Hayami’s dry voice, her eyebrows rising while her lowered eyelids and the slight knit in her brow betrayed how annoyed she really was. “Sorry; couldn’t tell with your rapier tucked away.”

Orie suddenly became very aware of the rapier hanging on her belt—although it was currently collapsed into nothing more than a short steel tube, looking about as innocuous as a flashlight. Orie tried to search Hayami’s face for the source of her concerns—if, indeed, there were any. Such weapons were enough to get the job done, but there were certainly arguments to be made as to it being  _too_ much, despite its less-than-lethal nature. It had grown less and less unusual for people to openly carry dangerous instruments in the street, but her rapier was a sword only cosmetically: it extended into an ultra-thin and narrow rod of steel, yes, but one whose tip glowed a cold blue—not from the metallic makeup but from the two electrodes at the very tip of the blade, microscopically spaced apart but constantly arcing electricity between them.

For a rapier, it was less a sword and more a stun prod, albeit one with a more generous striking range.

The sarcasm in Hayami’s voice seemed to come along with, it seemed to Orie, a notable and revealing dose of jealousy—but it wasn’t clear to her whether the other was jealous of the _rapier_ or the alcoholic privilege Orie had just refused to exercise. It was an old tale, she supposed: there was something about the restriction of alcohol that seemed to make young men and women crave it all the more. At any rate: considering the kind of family the cat-eared one had come from, it could be that Hayami had simply grown to be the envious type.

But… maybe she wasn’t exactly unique in that. People always want plenty that they can’t have.

“Well,” said Nino, his voice becoming a smooth and carefree little prick in the bubble of tension that had begun to grow around them, allowing the sound of surrounding low-wage celebration to return to their table. “I suppose we’d better get you the pertinent information. About Black Mask’s man.”

Surprised at this sudden return to business, Orie realized that Zatanna had somehow returned to her place at the counter, apparently having slipped away somewhere during Hayami’s barbs.

The cat-girl followed Nino’s lead, though, pulling out a cheap datapad. “Location, schedule, even his handle, if you want it. We didn’t want to send it on a network,” she explained, sliding it toward Orie. “Could get someone in trouble.”

She took the square device with mild surprise, not having seen one of  _these_ for some time, considering everyone’s move to using PADs and net storage for whatever data needs they envisioned. A surprisingly thorough profile appeared as she accessed the contents; did the anarchs collect all of it themselves? “Thank you. I assume this is everything, then.”

“And now that you two have met a couple of times,” Nino interjected, “I was hoping I could convince you to exchange contact information—so that I needn’t be your go-between next time.” His smile had chilled and thinned out a bit, lending a certain harried weight to his suggestion which his state of inebriation might have otherwise robbed.

To Orie’s pleasant surprise, Hayami obediently (albeit begrudgingly) drew her PAD from one pocket; Orie mirrored her.

“Done,” Hayami muttered, dropping her PAD ungraciously to the table.

“I look forward to working with you,” Orie answered, smiling in spite of herself. Even if Hayami was rather  _sour_ , she was finding it difficult to dislike her completely; her attitude almost seemed like an affectation—as though it were something that came with her ears. If Nino could handle her, then no doubt  _she_ could—and at any rate, Hayami’s information was always good: a valuable friend to have, particularly since neither she nor the anarchs seemed particularly interested in compensation for the assistance.

Hayami narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Orie’s smiling, but eventually gave a single nod, as though approving that Orie should see this opportunity as a great honor. She took a powerful sip from the straw in her glass.

“And thank you for your help so far, Nino,” added Orie, maneuvering the datapad into one of her jacket’s pockets. “I should probably get to the compound before dark. I haven’t touched my drink, so feel free to take it, Miss Saito.”

The girl’s face twisted with disgust, although one couldn’t be sure if this was due to the offer itself or to the moniker. “Just don’t get killed; I don’t need that on my conscience.” She immediately grimaced, as though her words had sounded far less cliché in her head.

“I understand,” Orie agreed, suppressing another smile as she rose to her feet.

With a little chuckle, Nino also stood. “I should be getting on my way, as well. Don’t stay too long, Hayami; you’ll look out of place on your own.”

“Wha—you can’t leave! Didn’t you drive here?” protested the girl.

“Not today. Careful planning,” he assured her with a smile, raising a hand in farewell and walking Orie to the door.

While the kettle resembled a more classic steel goose-neck, it was electric all the same—and no doubt the water it produced was no worse than whatever might be plumbed from the depths of more artisanal cookware. Perhaps it was a bad habit to drink coffee so late in the evening, but it had become something of a ritual—and Lotta’s work was admittedly not important enough that a bit of lost sleep would impact her output… or if it did, perhaps relaxing with a warm cup was simply worth all of that.

After sending the filter off to the compost and giving her pour-over set a brief rinse, she returned to her steaming mug and—after lifting it with both hands—allowed herself an indulgent whiff of the coffee’s aroma, briefly imagining herself as something straight out of an advertisement. Along with a modest little dish of sweet treats, she brought her beverage to the very aptly-named coffee table and lowered herself into the adjacent couch, one end of which faced a luxuriously large window featuring an adequate view of the dusking city.

No sooner had she done so, unfortunately, than the tell-tale ring of the apartment’s sensors alerted her to the presence of a visitor, which was followed immediately by a series of firm and irregular raps on the front door. Valiantly holding in a sigh, she made her way to the door, her curiosity replaced with pleasant surprise when the entryway monitor showed her who it was, and so she wasted no more time in greeting her guest.

“Nino!” she greeted, coming in for a hug despite the other’s obvious eagerness to exit the hallway. “You’ve been drinking,” she remarked, after catching his scent.

“Lotta,” he countered fondly and without explanation, the thickness of his voice confirming her suspicions. She noticed late that he was offering her a cute little cuboid box the size of his fist.

She smiled and raised her eyebrows, impressed and curious, and accepted it gratefully as she shut the door behind him. “Is it a cake?” she asked, even though everything about the pastel box conveyed its identity as a pastry container.

“I wonder,” he mused, hanging up his jacket and wandering toward the living area.

Despite knowing how well it would complement her freshly poured coffee, she went ahead and deposited his gift onto the kitchen counter for safekeeping before joining him. “You were drinking, but Jean isn’t with you?”

“Not tonight; he’s working late, I think,” he guessed. “I was out on other business, but… it seemed as good a time as any to get started. If I had been thinking, I would have brought some home for you—more than just sweets, anyway.” He smiled, sinking onto the couch.

Lotta gave him a curious and somewhat suspicious look as she, too, sank into her seat, pretending not to take notice as Nino slipped an arm around her against the top of the sofa. “Well, it is late… and we’re both working tomorrow.” After a thoughtful pause, she gave him a reproachful smile and added: “How long were you drinking?”

“A long time,” he admitted, moving his hand to her far shoulder. “Suppose it’s not the time so much as the volume.”

She nodded at this wise remark. “And if Jean were there?”

“He may not have survived,” he admitted again, smiling.

That much? she wondered, mostly unconcerned but also wondering what his intentions were—or rather,  _knowing_ what his intentions were and wondering if he himself realized just how unsubtle he was being about them, or if this was just another effect of the drink. Perhaps Nino wasn’t joking; if it was enough to make his usual careful smile look a bit goofy and lopsided, Jean would have collapsed on the table long, long before…

She slid the coffee toward him. “Perhaps you should try sobering up a little, Nino. You still smell like wine.”

“My apologies, although I still think that won’t be necessary,” he assured her, even if his voice had gone lackadaisical from drink and was therefore anything  _but_ reassuring. He abandoned further subtlety as he slid closer to her, his arm slipping off the sofa to rest on her shoulders, instead, his body leaning slightly into hers. “But I don’t mind a bit of metabolizing; why don’t you tell me about your day?”

She smiled, admittedly rather pleased with the attention but still wondering if this situation was  _okay_ , particularly since this was an obvious distraction on his part—a fact which Nino made no effort of disguising as he slowly pressed her down onto her back.

“Well, I met a celebrity today at work,” she began, trying to think rather positively of the encounter even if this particular subject had ultimately left her with extra work to do.

“A celebrity, you say? At the Fuelati warehouses?” he asked with a smile, clearly suspending his disbelief. He propped himself above her, one hand reaching to tenderly fondle the collar of her blouse as he looked warmly down at her. “Anyone I would know?”

“I think so, although you don’t see her in the news too often—likes to keep to herself, I think.”

“And will you tell me who she is?” he asked, his smile growing a touch tickled-looking.

“Oh—right. It was Catwoman,” she announced, looking back up at him with a carefully subdued smile.

Nino’s own smile promptly disappeared, replaced with a curious surprise that looked almost as though it had sobered him up. A beat passed, him blinking as he waited to be sure his comprehension could be trusted—but the influence of drink soon made itself apparent once again, a smile reappearing that looked just a little too relaxed, as his hand resumed its travels along her collar, stopping at the ribbon tying the whole thing together and slowly beginning to tug.

“And? Everything you imagined she’d be?” he asked.

“I suppose not,” Lotta admitted, “although I hadn’t thought anything particular of Catwoman one way or another, until today. I wouldn’t mind meeting her again, though! She was nice, even if the inventory assessment was a little more tricky, on account of what she took.”

However jovial, Nino gave her another significant look, apparently growing tired of having to prompt her for bits and pieces of the story. Perhaps he really was even more flush with drink than she had realized; the thought made her giggle, and she let one of her hands reach up to feel his chest through the fabric of his shirt, pleased to feel slightly more “in control” of the situation.

“Turns out she walked off with a brain cage,” she specified, granting his wish. “Not a cheap piece of equipment.”

“No,” he agreed. “Perhaps even on par with her usual gemstones.” With this remark, he pulled the ribbon free and set it aside before letting his hand drift toward its next target, his knuckles even gently grazing her cheek as he reached for her hair tie, his digits sinking carefully but indulgently into her golden hair and cradling the back of her head; Lotta sensed a possessiveness in them that surprised and pleased her in equal measure. While Nino’s features were—on the whole—rather slender and graceful, it was easy to forget how large his hands really  _were,_ when not present to remind you.

In the next moment, he slowly helped let her hair down, allowing her to enjoy that light and tingling pressure on her scalp as his delicate fingers coaxed the soft cord of the hairband down the length of her locks, culminating in a brief moment of weightless freedom that came once her tresses had been freed.

She valiantly suppressed the urge to shudder, not wanting to reward him too much. “I wonder what she’ll do with it,” she wondered conversationally, his distractions having nearly robbed her of her train of thought.

“Looking to upgrade, perhaps?” he supposed innocently, his other palm finally rising up her hip and to her abdomen, its warmth now feeling as though it was radiating through every inch of her.

“Maybe,” she agreed absently, looking up at him with her head already feeling light and fuzzy and leaving her wondering if it was futile to try and prolong this conversation. Was the Catwoman in anything but a Type 1 body? Did Lotta have any reason to care? Especially… to care right  _now_ ?

Ostensibly seeing this hesitation as his opportunity, Nino’s hand rose higher up her belly toward her collar, but stopped firmly somewhere in between.

Lotta inhaled sharply, one hand instinctively reaching for his wrist—not to stop him, but to control him, such that she could. Only after a painful swallow did she realize how hot her face felt, almost as though she had herself been drinking.

“Nino… What if Jean comes over?” That wouldn’t be unusual, after all, especially when you accounted for the frequency at which he forgot to procure mundane items for himself.

His gaze drifted upward for a moment, as though he were considering this. “He could always join us,” he said eventually, lowering his eyes back to hers with a smile.

She laughed, despite herself. “You’re the only one who’s been drinking, Nino.”

“Ah, right,” he conceded with a nod. “Then he’ll leave us alone; he’s got enough tact for that.”

Lotta tried to decide whether that was worse than the alternatives—not to mention that she disagreed; Jean was the type to stand at the door for an absurdly long time, she felt.

No point saying as much, though. Jean’s arrival was only a hypothetical, while Nino’s was very much not. Instead of answering him, she decided to remind him just whose apartment he had invaded, doing so by moving her hand from his chest, up past his shoulder and to the back of his neck. She could taste the wine most strongly when she pulled him in for the evening’s first kiss, and—while she somehow already felt sufficiently intoxicated—she continued to search his lips for more of it, in the same motion releasing his wrist, thinking that even a drunken Nino would take the message.


End file.
